


Black Sails Ficlets

by Apetslife



Category: Black Sails
Genre: AU, F/M, Ficlets, M/M, Multi, Prompt Responses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10602465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: A bunch of unconnected (occasionally connected!) ficlets written for writing prompts and Black Sails.  Pairings and ratings will shift by chapter.





	1. I didn't intend to kiss you, Silver/Flint

I Didn't Intend To Kiss You

“So, which was it?” Silver asks, as if the conversation had never paused, and Flint has to stop unbuckling his boots to stare at him in confusion. “A welcome, or a warning?” he adds, clearly trying to be helpful.

“Both, I suppose,” Flint answers honestly after a moment, and keeps working on the boot, hoping Silver will shut up and sleep. It has been a long day. A long week. A long year, frankly, and all he wants right now is rest. Talking with Silver lately has been exhilarating and challenging and like nothing so much as a sparring bout between closely-matched partners, but right now he just doesn’t have the energy.

“You do realize I wasn’t in the running for sainthood before I met you, right?” Silver’s actually grinning at him, the shit, and it’s so unexpected that Flint just blinks. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I might not need either.”

“You were running small cons and stealing things you didn’t even know the value of when I met you,” Flint answers, after a long moment of consideration. “Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to say, but I think we’re on a whole new level, now.”

“Always thinking so highly of yourself,” Silver scoffs, and lays back on the simple cot, stretching himself out with an unselfconsciousness that Flint has to look away from, before the image burns into his eyes forever. “I could have been a Spanish spy. I could have been a spy MASTER. A whole new level. Really.”

“Give me that,” Flint says, cranky, noticing his rucksack on the other side of Silver, against the wall of the hut. “And I saw you fling yourself wildly off the side of my ship, slap into the ocean with the entire crew looking on. If you were a spymaster then, you were the worst in history.”

“Reminding a friend of past embarrassments is very impolite,” Silver informs him, and does not hand him his pack.

“What else would we ever talk about?” And this is honestly one of his favorite things about Silver, the way he somehow can make even the most serious conversations turn in a way that will have Flint hiding smiles in his beard, or turning away to quell a laugh. He hasn’t laughed so much in…

“You see? Like that. I’m your quartermaster, Flint, I’m supposed to have at least a bit of respect from you, I’d say.”

“Respect is earned, Silver,” and he knows Silver can see him not-smiling, since the idiot is still grinning at him as he gets up and pads over, reaching for his bag himself. Leaning down for just a moment, he takes his eyes off Silver for the most brief of seconds

Soft mouth against his. A cool, dry hand on the side of his neck, and the tickle of a moustache against his cheek. He’s too startled to move, even when Silver lingers, pulling his bottom lip between his own, but the touch of tongue galvanizes him and he kisses back instinctively. Leaning down and turning in, taking this surprising gift, he meets Silver’s tongue with his own, and it is sweet-hot, burning like honey mead, everything he had not allowed himself to want.

“I didn’t intend to kiss you,” Silver says when they finally, slowly, reluctantly part, and he’s looking into Flint’s eyes with the most sincerity Flint can recall. “But I won’t apologize for it.”

“No,” Flint says, and strokes his thumb along the maddening, tempting, gorgeous hollow of Silver’s throat, framed by his open collar. “No, I wouldn’t want you to.”


	2. Your Smile Is Not As Bright As It Used To Be, Flint/Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint/Silver

“Your smile is not as bright as it used to be.” Set between S2/S3

By the time they reach Nassau again, Silver is deeply, heartily sick of Flint’s cabin. The movement of the ship makes learning to walk again nearly impossible, and Flint himself is a nightmare of mixed signals; one moment warm and solicitous, the next a cold coil of rage and anguish that will not speak or move for hours. Without the ability to leave the cabin and find an escape, it’s exhausting.

Nassau is the same, and Nassau is different. The gold has come, and he can sense it from the skiff. The beach is loud, raucous, boisterous in a way he’s never seen before. There are half again as many flags flying over encampments there as before, and the harbor is thick with ships. He’s so busy looking around and taking tally he only half-acknowledges the assistance he needs getting to the dock, and again with his crutch on the uneven planking.

“Careful,” Howell says sharply to someone who nearly knocks into them, and that snaps him back to awareness of his immediate surroundings.

People are staring.

He has avoided mirrors since Charles Town. He imagines that fever and pain have drawn him pale and thin and beyond that, of course, the leg. He’ll not show weakness now, though. Not when he has four of his own standing behind him, holding respect for him, admiration truly and honestly won for the first time in his life. He squares his shoulders and settles the crutch and makes his slow, agonizing way towards the town.

Three days later, when the augue and fever brought on by too much exertion finally subside, he forces himself out of the Walrus crew’s main shack more or less by will alone, and makes his painful way to the Captain’s hut.

Flint is there, at his desk in the shade, cool in contrast to the burning sun and sand outside. He looks calmer, somehow, like seeing Nassau and the gold recovered and the crews united again have settled something within him that had been raging before.

He gets up hastily when he sees Silver, and Silver chews his lip bloody to prevent himself from shouting angry denials of his need for help, even as he sags gratefully into the supporting arm that gets under his own and takes his own unbalanced weight off his shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing out of bed?” Flint asks, curious and curt, and pours him water from the pitcher standing by. Silver takes it gratefully.

“I need Howell to make me a leg,” he says, rough and blunt and without any of the fine framing he’d usually give it. He’s too fucking tired and he hurts too much.

“Already?” There’s a little crease between Flint’s brows and Silver focuses on that, on how clearly he can watch the thoughts chase each other across his captain’s face, because when he does that, he can stop thinking about his pain.

“Yes, already. I need to be mobile, and this fucking thing,” he slaps the crutch hatefully, “is barely useful at all. If I’m to help you in this, be a true partner in this venture and a quartermaster of any value, I must have a leg.”

Flint sits back in his chair at that, and suddenly Silver can’t read him at all.

“Did you know,” he says, “that the most common injury in the Navy is loss of a leg? Cannonballs. They skip through wood and take feet and legs most often, fired at the waterline or at the deck. Even rolling they can crush a foot or a shin. In some places in England, you’ll see a man with a peg more often than not.” He meets Silver’s eyes. “You’re not the only one to have ever lived through this. And you will live through it, and be quartermaster to the crew. But only if you don’t kill yourself through overwork first.”

“Fuck that,” Silver spits, furious suddenly. “I’ll tolerate neither you nor the crew patronizing me, and I think we’ve proven well enough that I’m the best judge of how to manage the men and their sentiments. So if I say I need a leg, then you should get me a fucking leg.“

Flint doesn’t flare up in response, which is distantly surprising even in Silver’s fury, but folds his hands on the table and leans forward, intent.

“Your smile is not as bright as it used to be, when you smile at all,” Flint answers quietly, and surprise knocks the anger right out of Silver. He blinks at Flint. "Your words come harsh and hard even against those who call you friend. I watched you charm and plan and flirt your way into the good graces of every man on this ship, and then cement that regard with courage and sacrifice, so I can imagine a little what must be driving you to this extreme. Do you really think that any man here would see you further tortured, just so you could walk among them instead of limping, sooner?“

Silver hates being at a loss for words. Hates it. “I don’t flirt,” he manages weakly, finally, and grimaces a little when Flint honestly laughs at him.

“You’re such a flirt that I’m astonished no one’s taken you up on it yet,” he comes back, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at Silver that makes him flush hot under his collar, shift a little in his seat, glance away. "Perhaps once you’re healed,“ he continues, then trails off and busies himself with papers on the desk. "Rest for a few more days. We’ll have Howell consult with the surgeon in Nassau and see if we can’t get you healing faster. And then, Silver, yes, I will have him make you a fucking leg.”

This conversation has truly not gone at all how Silver had planned, and he nods, a little dazed, and pushes himself very carefully up to his one foot, biting off a curse as the blood rushes to his stump, agony. 

“And Silver?”

“Hmm?” He turns, jaw clenched.

“Truly rest. I’ll need you at the Governor’s Mansion, day after tomorrow. We’re establishing councils, governance, and roles, and I’d have you at my side, with all your not-inconsiderable wits about you.” The look on Flint’s face reminds him of the one he’d seen on first awakening. Soft, and affectionate, and perhaps even proud, and Silver can’t deal with that right now, so he merely nods. And reflects that yet another hardship he will have to endure from this day forward is that the fastest he can flee a conversation like this one is far, far too slow.


	3. “You’re Supposed To Talk Me Out Of This” and “I Will If You Will.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver/Flint, AU

“You’re Supposed To Talk Me Out Of This” and “I Will If You Will.”

“Do you know,” James says thoughtfully, quietly, not moving an inch from where they’re hidden in the tall grass and into the long waiting silence, “this might actually be the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done?”

Slowly, terribly slowly, those words ringing in his ears, Silver turns his head, disbeliving, to meet his eyes. "What the fuck are you talking about?“

“This whole thing,” James repeats calmly, looking forward again, eyes on the road they’re watching from shelter. "This plan. Start to finish. Absolutely idiotic.“

“Why didn’t you say that when I proposed it?” Silver’s voice is an outraged hiss. He cannot believe this is happening. AGAIN.

“Well, if you think about it,” Flint’s shoulder moves a fraction of an inch, the shadow of a shrug, “generally I put forward the wild plan, then say ‘you’re supposed to talk me out of this,’ and you do, if you can. When you’re the one proposing the madness, it just upsets the natural order of things.”

“This is in no way my fault,” Silver starts hotly, and then they’re cut off.

“If the two of you don’t shut the fuck up I’ll gut you myself and leave you for the carrion birds.” Anne Bonny’s voice is low but very clear, and Silver for one does not doubt her sincerity. He meets Flint’s eyes. Flint shrugs again, that same tiny movement, and Silver rolls his own, aggravated beyond belief.

He settles back down into his spot in the grass.

“I mean.” Flint’s voice is barely audible even to Silver, and they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder. "It’s not like we ever had much good fortune with Spanish gold no matter where we were, so I don’t think your argument that taking it on land instead of on water is ‘luckier’ is really going to hold true.“

“If Anne doesn’t kill you I’ll do it myself,” Silver promises, just as quietly, between his teeth, glaring hard at a blade of grass that’s right in front of his nose. "What the fuck is the matter with you.“

“Would you prefer the list alphabetically, or chonologically?” Flint’s whisper is so cheerful that it drags Silver’s gaze back to him. He’s grinning, teeth white against the red of his beard, eyes all crinkled up, practically lounging there beside Silver, as relaxed as if they’re waiting for a meal at the tavern.

“Jesus Christ, preserve us,” Silver frantically but subtly crosses himself. "You’re having fun.“

"A debt repaid, a good fight, a partner at my side, a fine day? What’s not to enjoy?” 

“We’re all going to die,” Silver predicts direly, and closes his eyes.

“No, we’re going to take a chest of Spanish payroll gold, take a share and leave the rest with Anne for her anniversary gift to Jack,” James corrects, and he still sounds like he’s smiling. "We’ll never have to hear them complaining about their lost cache again. We’ll have enough gold for a decent ship and crew wages until we can start hunting again, and I will fuck you into the mattress every night for a week in gratitude for your ridiculous plan.“

Silver opens his eyes again.

"Truly?”

“Truly.”

A low whistle from the rise ahead freezes them both. John checks his rifle, the charges and shot he’s laid out so that he can eliminate any outriders as Flint and Bonny handle the close combat. 

“Stand ready,” Anne hisses.

“Stay alive,” James warns him, suddenly serious as he braces to jump.

“I will if you will,” Silver says, and kisses him, and they’re off.


	4. I Have Contemplated Becoming A Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint/Hamilton/Silver/Madi

So far, Silver has come home from visits to town with:

\- a coracle with a hole in the bottom that Flint can definitely fix  
\- three invitations to supper from people that had previously hated them  
\- a puppy (Madi made him take it back when it wouldn’t stop chasing her cat)  
\- five chickens  
\- a wheelbarrow full of old books

Flint calls it “going to visit Solomon Little” when Silver heads out on these expeditions, and refuses to explain it to Thomas and Madi when they ask him why. He also refuses to explain why he always checks the priming on his pistol and has his saber ready to hand once John leaves, just in case.

Their little house on the cliffs is really not big enough for the four of them, but only Silver and Flint seem to chafe against any of the space constraints, and they deal with it very differently. As far as Flint can tell, Silver doesn’t mind being near people, he just minds it being the same three people all the time every day. Whereas Flint would really rather have some time alone, if at all possible, and so heads out to fish nearly every morning alone, and mounts solo expeditions for birds eggs in the cliff rocks, and has set traps for small animals to augment their stores. 

“You don’t need to work so hard,” Thomas tells him one evening, bent over a slash in his palm gained from a trapline snagged in gorse that had fought him hard. “Madi and John brought gold and gems. We have our own funds, and my teaching salary is more than generous. We could get a larger house, closer to town, and you might stop coming home covered in blood.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” John calls from the kitchen, and James scowls in his direction though he knows he won’t see it. 

“I like our house,” he answers stubbornly, after Thomas has set the dressing and bandage around his hand and tested it to be sure it’s secure. “I like being able to watch the sea.”

“And all the paths of approach,” Thomas adds knowingly, eyes twinkling. He knows all about Captain Flint and his adventures, and has come to appreciate a few of James’ lingering instincts. 

“Honestly, I have contemplated becoming a hermit,” James grumbles at him without heat. “All three of you set against a man is a lot to handle.”

A cool hand on his shoulder warns him before Madi hands him a cup of tea, and he smiles his gratitude to her. 

“You would miss us too much,” she says serenely, settling in the chair next to his, and he can’t deny it, and kisses her hand with a courtliness that has John snorting from the kitchen doorway.

“I bring home chickens, but she gets the kiss?”

“You brought home chickens, John. You’re lucky I don’t just toss you over the cliffs and be done with you.”

“That’s a fine thing to say to the man who will be making your eggs tomorrow.” John drapes over his shoulders familiarly, nosing behind his ear like a big cat, and Thomas is watching them with laughing, loving eyes, and James thinks, perhaps the life of a hermit wouldn’t be so nice after all.


	5. What Are You Doing In My House?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint/Hamilton/Silver/Madi, direct sequel to Chapter 4

John and Thomas have something of a contentious relationship, and have since they met, months ago, on the New England shore where Silver and Madi had disembarked from their ship. John believes, and has expressed at length, that Thomas was and is a posh idiot with no common sense who put his loved ones in danger for absolutely no reason. Thomas believes, and has explained with equal fervor, that John was and is an amoral criminal whose next betrayal is a chance shift in priorities away.

Madi and James stay out of it, and enjoy watching them try to work out their animosities in bed whenever possible.

But it remains true that when Madi wakes and finds only one head on a pillow beside her, and that one red (with just a scattering of gray), she is immediately just a little concerned. It’s not that they’d ever do each other real harm, but Silver’s tongue can be deadly in its viciousness, and Thomas is so insightful that his hits always strike home. 

“James,” she touches his shoulder gently. “Wake up. I think our husbands might be off murdering each other.”

He doesn’t move. This is not at all surprising, since of all of them, he’s least likely to be moved from his sleep in the morning by anything less than gunfire or breakfast.

“James,” she says, a little more urgently. “Thomas is gone, and so is John.”

That sits him up quickly enough.

They almost run into Silver, though, hurrying down the narrow hall towards the kitchen. He’s lurking silently by the doorway, and peering into the kitchen proper, his hair all bound up in a knot at the back of his head and his crutch under his arm.

His grin, when he turns to them with a finger to his lips, is so wide it almost seems impossible.

“I came down to heat water for tea,” he whispers, “and found this! Look. You have to look.”

Madi peers past him, James at her shoulder, and then has to press a hand to her lips to stop herself laughing. One of Silver’s controversial chickens, the large, red, broody one, is perched on one of their chairs, staring Thomas Hamilton in the eye with a kind of gimlet determination that apparently has him stymied.

“I just don’t understand,” he says to it plaintively, from his own chair a safe distance away. They all bear the scars from retrieving eggs from this hen. All but James, who won’t go near the things and still threatens to end Silver’s life quite regularly over their presence on the property. “What are you doing in my house?”

Silver’s eyes are absolutely burning with suppressed laughter, and he buries his face in her shoulder helplessly. 

“Those fucking chickens,” James mutters behind her, still sounding mostly asleep and very annoyed. “How the fuck did it get in here?”

“I believe that is what Thomas asked,” Madi answers, with as much dignity as she can, and then it all falls apart as Silver’s shoulders shake and he can’t hold the laughter in any more, and she can’t help but join him, and in a moment they’re both leaning on the wall, weak with mirth.

“Oh for god’s sake,” James says, loudly, but he can’t hold back the smile either, even as he pushes past them to make his way to Thomas’s side and brush a kiss over his rather red face. “Silver, come get your goddamn bird out of the kitchen. Thomas, stop talking to what will eventually be a stew, if Silver doesn’t get it out of the kitchen. It’s far too early to be dealing with this.”

“It’s gone eight,” Madi points out, and kisses him too, right on his sleepy grumpy cheek, and goes to make the tea.


End file.
